


Echoes

by TerokNorTailor



Series: Old Habits [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, postcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerokNorTailor/pseuds/TerokNorTailor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian Bashir tries out his spy program for the first time after the Dominion War, but things just aren't the same...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes

It was a late night on the Station and he had an hour of solitary activity reserved in one of the holosuites. Secret Agent Bashir, Julian Bashir, had donned his customary tuxedo for the occasion. He strutted proudly down the Promenade, garnering intrigued looks from passersby and a nod from the boisterous waiter at the Klingon restaurant. After, and even during the Dominion war, he had always maintained an air of welcome. He wondered why Worf and Jadzia had spent most of their time out together at Quark’s instead of there, wolfing down plates of gagh barehanded. His thoughts turned to Ezri, and how over the past year they had drifted apart. He felt cold and isolated, the air of the station seemingly filled with lead overtime as their relationship stagnated. Julian shivered. 

There was no reason for him to feel so cold at the moment. The thermostat had been adjusted to accommodate the average summer temperature of a typical Bajoran day, and yet he was still freezing. The shivering motion rustled the replicated silk of the suit, which hung unusually slack between his shoulder blades. He had to replicate a new one, as his previous ensemble had been deconstructed by Weyoun during the Dominion’s occupation of DS9. The little Vorta had left behind a royal mess after the Federation had retaken the Station. Various items of little to no importance had been strewn about his quarters. Bits of string, broken glass, chair legs, clots of tangled thread, and strands of frayed wire had formed a new carpet in the Doctor’s absence. 

In the closet, Julian found three identical outfits of Vorta design. Weyoun’s uniform, with its odd leather sleeve and pleating at the neckline by the looks of it. He threw these in the matter recycler almost instantly upon finding them, only to discover a pile of frayed black silk in the corner. Nimble fingers searched in the strips of ripped fabric, and eventually cradled a limp black bow tie. He threw the mass of black in the recycler too, and pressed the activation button on the LCARS display, whisking the pile of clothing away in a swirl of bright gold.

That’s why his suit didn’t fit right today.

It wasn’t tailored.

Julian turned the corner into Quark’s Bar, and was almost instantly assaulted with the Ferengi’s pandering pleas for a drink purchase and insinuation that the time of his visit somehow implied a sexual holosuite conquest. He shot the bartender a pointed look that could have sheared the lobes right off his head. A valuable skill he had learned some short years ago. The following exchange contained few words, and Quark eventually loaded Julian’s selected program into the holosuite matrix.

The lower level holosuites were all filled thanks to a delegation from Betazed, and Julian’s eyes came to rest upon an empty table near the back as he ascended the spiral stairs. It was there that he had a quite interesting lecture on Klingon fashion that led to a Bajoran terrorist being captured more than eight years ago.

Seconds later, following the hiss of the holosuite doors behind him, Julian Bashir was assaulted by the sounds of the streets in Hong Kong. He was glad to have stretched beforehand, as two insidious-looking operatives gave chase. Their faces were covered, and they carried custom made machine pistols. He really had nothing to worry about since the safety protocols were fully functional, yet Julian ran hard and fast. That is, until he was pulled into a narrow alleyway.

He was greeted with a thick Russian accent emanating from beneath a heavy hood. The owner of both voice and hood revealed themselves with a flourish as Colonel Anastasia Komananov, yet concealed herself again when the two mysterious black figures ran past the alley opening.

“Anastasia…” Julian sighed, almost a whisper.

“Oh, Julian!” The hologram’s accent was almost comedic in its over-exaggeration. He was briefly transported back to Starfleet Academy during one class in which students had to listen to interviews from the Federation’s past. Julian was sure that Captain Pavel Chekov was a perfectly respectable officer, it’s just that history wasn’t his strongest suit – nor was the organization of a starship, for that matter. Rather than listen to the unexpected burdens of command, he itched to get to Dr. Leonard McCoy’s first findings of disease in deep space.

Lost in the past, Julian was almost unaware of Komananov’s attempts to pull him deeper into the alleyway. He only snapped to reality when he heard his shoulder seam rip. That was one thing about replicated clothing. It never lasted as long as handmade garments. 

The colonel’s pleading eyes did nothing to tear Julian away from reality. He had played this episode so many times before and had always bought in to the allure of photons, force fields, and replicated matter that was Anastasia Komananov, but this time she was different. He knew she wasn’t real, and his mind would not let him forget that, not even for a second.

“Computer!” Julian spat out the word as if he were scolding a pet. “Advance to chapter five.” 

With a ping of recognition, the busy streets faded and were replaced with the MI6-furnished apartment given to him by the English government. The night skyline of 1960s Hong Kong glittered outside the window.

The voluptuous pinstriped form of his assistant, Mona Luvsitt, entered the room. 

“What can I do for you, Mister Bashir?” Her voice was dulcet and soft, falling out of her ruby-lipped mouth like the richest velvet, but it stung Julian’s ears as unwelcome and grating.

“Mona-” she hung on to the two syllables of her name, eyes wide open looking up at the man she had been assigned to. Programmed as such; calculated to please the program player’s every whim.

“Computer, remove the Mona character and suspend all action.” Julian’s clipped voice was cold as he ordered his assistant out of existence. She dissolved before his eyes, the same static doe-eyed expression on her face. A loop of street sounds played below, and would repeat indefinitely until he alone lifted the action suspension he had placed on the program. Car horns blared and vendors shouted their late night wares on street corners. All was softened by the constant lap of polluted water against the rocky shore.  
Julian went over to the bar, throwing his now ripped suit jacket down on the couch in front of the window. The fabric landed limply in a matte black pool. The bar was stocked with numerous strong spirits, and his hands landed on a bottle of aged scotch. He poured the flimsy amber liquid into a stout glass and longed for something else. The replicated drink burned his throat as he swallowed the contents all in one gulp. It completely lacked the complex flavor and substantial body of Kanar. 

He could never find Kanar these days.

The Dominion War had almost completely dried up the Alpha Quadrant’s supply and replicated versions just could not compare to the original. Julian still longed for the thick texture of the traditional Cardassian beverage to coat his tongue in sour, bitter spice. His hand clamped down on the scotch glass, wishing the safety protocols would allow him to break it. He needed something to tell him he was still alive, and the feeling of glass shards slicing into his palm seemed appropriate. Unfortunately the safety programming was keyed in to Quark’s Ferengi intonation, and it was impossible for Julian to mimic his voiceprint to order the computer to shut it off, even with genetically engineered intelligence. He was no O’Brien either. Computers did not make as much sense as the anatomy of various humanoid and non-humanoid species.

A hot droplet landed on his still clenched hand, and the simulated air conditioning cooled a line of moisture down his face. Julian dropped the glass, which shattered into hundreds of harmless holographic pieces on the bar top. Reaching up to his eye, he wiped away a tear.

The room started spinning.

Memories came flooding back. More broken glass was followed by an endless cadence of measured claps and an inquiry about a parade. A complaint about a neckline. The accidental intrusive visages of past and present comrades and the permitted intrusion of another. A cigar. A secret Mount Everest lair and its adjoining laser cave. A kiss, an argument, a shot and a stained collar. Wise words repeated at the last minute.

Garak.

Tears now flowed freely from Julian’s eyes. Powerless to stop them, he fell against a wall and collapsed.

“Garak!” Julian choked out the name of his plain and simple tailor.

Through sobbing convulsions, Julian Bashir repeated the name of his seven year companion. He almost didn’t notice the computer’s warning that an hour had passed.

The world dissolved around him and Julian let himself fall through the empty space that had previously been a wall. He didn’t even bother bracing himself against the impact. The floor was unforgiving as his shoulder and head hit the hard surface.

Julian was now absolutely sure of two things.

He had to go to Cardassia, but first he had to delete this program.


End file.
